Father hen

THE CHICKENS WERE SCREAMING one night last week. We have kept chickens for at least twenty years, and on occasion have had to deal with predators. Once a coyote managed to get lucky and open the slip-latch door, leaving us with a bloody mess. Another time I was perversely delighted when scaring off a dark form, to see it turn and face my flashlight. A large bobcat stared back, his eyes glowing in the light. He bounded off into the canyon, and I had a hard time convincing our flock that such a sight was rare indeed, and that we should be honored to be visited by such a wild thing.

On this night, I donned my bathrobe with the appropriate curses and went to investigate. The hens were huddled near the door, far from their high nighttime perch. There was no sign of an intruder, and so I entered to console them, hunkering down with my bathrobe in the dirt, looking for the trouble. Within minutes all four of the gals were underneath around my legs, as if under a tent. They stayed there until they began to coo with relief, and I listened to an owl hoot somewhere nearby. I figured he must have landed above the high perch, but was of course unable to do more than scare them. The next day I built a wooden roof above the perch, and the day after, we got two lovely blue eggs.